The shop had all the basics any villager could possibly want and more. There were shelves full of exotic delights that any holidaying foodie would fall upon with relish. Relieved to find that driving to the nearest town and looking for a supermarket wouldn’t be necessary, Carrie bought more than the milk and eggs she’d originally come in for. The shopping basket was soon full with those plus wine, a local cheese, a tub of clotted cream, two slices of local ham, teacakes, crumpets, and a jar of honey.
At the back of the shop she discovered a country clothing section with wellingtons and macs, a small DIY section with emergency bits and bobs like light bulbs and washers, and bags of dog and cat food. A pile of straw shopping baskets stood on the floor underneath a rack of sun hats.
Realising she didn’t have anything to put the shopping in, she chose a sturdy straw basket with green and red stripes before making her way to the till. Standing by the counter, waiting to be served, she picked a thin book out of a rack of magazines, paperbacks and cards. Tales of a Devonshire Village. A.R.Trumble. The book the publican had written. That, too, went into the basket. She’d enjoy browsing through it this evening.
Walking back to the house, passing the village green with its war memorial, she crossed over to take a closer look. Both the First and Second World Wars had claimed the lives of many villagers. The name Trumble, carved into the granite time and time again, outnumbered all the others. Had any of them been related to her?
Deep in thought, Carrie made her way back to the house. Once she’d unpacked her shopping in the kitchen she’d make a start on sorting out the house. Whatever she decided to do with it, she needed to work out what, if anything, she wanted to keep and what needed disposing of.
She decided to make a small start by gathering all the photographs together on the piano. There were photographs scattered throughout the house. Some were of an elderly couple – his parents? A couple of dogs – beloved pets? One from the desk in the study was of a young woman laughing at the camera. She picked up the group photo she’d looked at before and wondered who they all were. Was one of them Robert? She had no idea what he looked like, this father of hers.
A knock on the front door made her jump. Standing there when she opened it was Anthony Trumble. At least this time he hadn’t barged in after knocking.
‘Still here then?’ he said.
‘Obviously. What d’you want?’
‘Just passing. Thought I’d check the house.’
‘As you see, I haven’t trashed it.’ Carrie hesitated as a sudden thought struck her. This arrogant man could answer a question for her if she could bring herself to ask him.
‘Umm, would you come in for a moment? There’s something I’d like you to tell me.’
Without a word he followed her into the sitting room and she pointed at the photographs she’d amassed on the piano.
‘Could you tell me if there’s a photo of Robert among this lot, please?’
He nodded. ‘Of course there is.’ He stared at her but made no attempt to answer her question further.
‘Would you mind pointing him out to me, please?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m here in his house and I’d like to know what he looked like,’ Carrie said, barely concealing her irritation.
Anthony picked up a couple of the photos. ‘This is Robert’s graduation photo, this one was taken on one of his birthdays – I forget which one but it was a good evening. And this one was taken at Dartmouth Regatta Ball last year. Okay?’ He turned to go.
‘Hang on. Which one is he in that group photo?’
Anthony pointed to the man on the far right of the group. ‘That’s Robert.’
‘D’you know who the others are?’ Carrie knew she was pushing her luck with this question.
‘An old friend and his wife,’ Anthony said, pointing to the man in the centre of the photograph. ‘The others came with the friend.’
‘Thank you.’ At least she now had a face to put to the name. ‘One more thing…’ She picked up the photo of the young woman she’d found in the study. ‘D’you know who this is?’
There was a silence of a few seconds as Anthony ostensibly studied the photo before glancing at her, hesitating, and handing it back. ‘Sorry, her name escapes me at the moment. Any more questions? No? Right, I’ll be off then.’ And he turned to leave.
Carrie followed him to the door, almost colliding with his back when he stopped by the refectory table in the hall and picked up the book she’d bought in the shop.
‘See you’ve bought my book. Hope you enjoy it.’ He put the book back on the table and left, closing the front door behind him.
Carrie picked up the book and looked at the author’s name properly for the first time – A.R.Trumble. She should have guessed. But the woman in the pub had said the landlord had written it.
So Anthony Trumble was an author and a publican. Somehow she could only see him in one of those roles, and it wasn’t that of landlord. He was far too arrogant and surly to be a genial host to strangers. As for being a writer, she’d have to read the book before she could decide about that.
*
Bruce had deliberately made an appointment to view a house in Dartmouth the morning of his birthday, figuring it would be better to be busy out and about rather than moping around the cottage, trying to banish memories of last year’s birthday, when Gabby had been around to help him celebrate..
He took Girly for her usual early morning walk before settling her in the cottage, hoping she’d be all right for the morning. It was the first time he’d left her alone. She usually accompanied him everywhere but it wasn’t practical to take her to the viewing and she definitely couldn’t be left in the car.
Street parking was always a problem in Dartmouth and Bruce decided it would be easier to use the car park and walk to the house situated in one of the old lanes off the main street. The estate agent was waiting for him in the empty house when he arrived.
A terraced three-storey townhouse, empty for a year, Bruce could tell instantly it would be an ideal project for him to take on as his first solo renovation. The roof was sound, nothing too major was needed – possibly rewiring and definitely a new bathroom and kitchen. The wooden floors throughout would look wonderful sanded and waxed.
‘Are they open to offers?’ he said as the agent opened the kitchen door and they stepped out onto the decked patio, which had a small garden beyond.
‘Always worth a try,’ the agent said. ‘Are you interested then?’
‘Definitely,’ Bruce said. ‘Ask them if they’ll take eight thousand less than the asking price and I’d want a completion date the first week in September.’ Experience told him the agent’s nonchalant reaction was a positive one. ‘Any chance of an answer today? I’ll have another wander around on my own while you ring them, shall I?’
Climbing the stairs up to the large bedroom in the eaves for a second look, Bruce smiled to himself. He’d missed the world of renovations the last few months. It felt good to be getting back into things again. On his birthday too – had to be a good omen. He heard the agent coming up the stairs looking for him.
‘They’ll knock five thousand off and completion on the date you want,’ the agent said.
Bruce smiled. That’s all he’d truly wanted knocked off. The extra three had simply been a ploy to give the owners the opportunity to feel they’d got the price they were happy with as well as the one he was willing to pay. He held out his hand. ‘Deal.’
Leaving the house he felt invigorated. In charge of his life again. Everything was good. He would be fine. Walking past the vintner’s on his way to the car park he impulsively went in and bought a bottle of champagne. He couldn’t go empty-handed to the barbecue this evening and, for the first time in months, he felt like celebrating.
Girly came thundering down the stairs to give him a rapturous welcome home, nearly knocking him over in the process.
‘Hey, I wasn’t gone that long. And what were you doing
sleeping upstairs? Your basket is down here.’
Bruce cut himself a slice of the quiche he’d bought in town and sat out on the terrace to enjoy it, with Girly watching every move his hand made. After the rain earlier in the week, the flowerbeds carefully tended by Toby around the sides and front of the cottages looked amazing – the roses in particular were spectacular in their profusion. The pots on Bruce’s small terrace, with their pansies, cosmos and agapanthus, added even more colour. He could smell the perfume from the honeysuckle Gabby had planted years ago along the end wall and hear the noise of bees darting in and out. Every summer Gabby had loved to sit at her desk in the small room upstairs and watch the bees in the honeysuckle that had twined its way around the window.
The small room was the one he would need to use as an office. Which meant he had to clear it and make room for his things. Emotionally not an easy job and one he wasn’t looking forward to. Initially it had been intended as a guest room, but Gabby had declared it too cramped for that purpose. Besides, it was easier to book friends into the good hotel down in the village.
Bruce shared the last of the pastry from the quiche with Girly and got to his feet. Buoyed up by his successful morning in town, he decided to tackle the room. It wasn’t that big. Plenty of time to sort it out before this evening’s barbecue at Karen’s.
Girly followed him upstairs and stood at his side as he hesitated by the door. It was the first time he’d been inside this visit and it felt so wrong to simply open the door and go in. He’d always knocked, listening for Gabby’s sing-song ‘You’re welcome to come on in’ before he entered. As he pushed open the door now, he half expected to see Gabby sitting in her usual place at the roll-top desk he’d surprised her with on her fortieth birthday. Her best ever birthday present, she’d told him. She’d chosen to have the desk in the cottage rather than in the office at the flat, saying it was special like the cottage. He didn’t understand her logic really; she’d have got more use out of it at the apartment, but having it at the cottage had made her happy.
Apart from the desk and its chair standing under the side window with its honeysuckle, there was a small wardrobe on the end wall, a chaise longue covered in toile de jouy material, a round coffee table and a wooden standard lamp with a cream shade. A shelf alongside the window held a couple of books, some box files and a framed picture of them both on their wedding day. The fitted carpet was coffee-coloured and the walls were painted a pale yellow. The room was cosy and peaceful.
Slowly Bruce crossed over to the wardrobe and opened it. Gabby had kept the things she called her grown-up clothes in here rather than in their joint wardrobe in the main bedroom. Happier in casual summer clothes – jeans or shorts and a white T-shirt – she’d kept her ‘posh’ dresses and a few designer clothes in here, ready for when they went out together.
He closed the door. He wouldn’t be needing to use the wardrobe, so they could stay there for the moment. Maybe Karen would be able to suggest something to do with them. Taking the box files down off the shelf he was surprised to find they were virtually empty. A few bank statements in one and a couple of share certificates for companies he’d forgotten she’d invested in. He took them out. He’d need to deal with these. Pushing up the roll-top lid of the desk, he looked at the series of stacked compartments, shelves, drawers and nooks as he placed the certificates on the leather desktop.
Opening and closing drawers and compartments, he found lots of pretty notebooks of all sizes, pen refills, paperclips, CDs, envelopes, files, ink cartridges for a non-existent printer. He could use lots of these things, so he methodically began to move them around and rearrange them to his own liking.
The big surprise, though, was a cardboard box in one of the drawers, filled with several old notebooks used for journalling, and a five-year diary. Flipping through a couple of the notebooks, it was clear Gabby had written them at college years ago when she’d first come to England as an exchange student. They were filled with her loopy writing and lots of pencil drawings of house interiors – her passion even then. The diary was locked with no sign of the key in the box – a fact for which Bruce was grateful. Flipping through and skim-reading the notebooks was one thing – a private diary was another. Bruce put everything back in the box and placed it in the bottom of the wardrobe. It could stay there for now.
Some of the day’s earlier excitement had deserted him by the evening but, as he took the champagne out of the fridge ready to go to Karen’s, he felt cheerful and optimistic about facing the future. Even celebrating this birthday without Gabby didn’t feel quite so daunting. At least, thanks to Karen and Wills, he wasn’t spending it alone. Gabby had always organised a special dinner for them somewhere or other – usually along the coast at one of their favourite restaurants.
When he reached The Captain’s House, Wills was busy at the barbecue. ‘Happy Birthday, Bruce. Mum’s in the kitchen.’
The kitchen door was open but there was no sign of Karen. Bruce called out ‘Hi’ as he walked in.
‘I’m in the sitting room – come on through,’ Karen called.
‘Surprise, surprise.’
Bruce laughed as Hazel, Simon, Joy, Toby, Guy and even Tia revealed their presence by bursting into an out-of-tune rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’.
Half an hour later, back out in the garden with champagne and food, Bruce, sitting next to Karen at the teak table under the pergola, said, ‘Thank you for organising this. What with everything else that’s happened today, it’s a birthday to remember. Can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. I know you’re busy getting ready for your influx of visitors.’
Karen waved away his thanks with her hand. ‘No problem. So, tell all. What happened this morning?’
‘I put the first part of my plan to live down here into action – I bought a house to renovate.’
‘Brilliant. Where?’
‘Dartmouth. I’ll take you to see it. You too if you’re interested,’ he added, looking at Guy, who he thought looked a bit strained.
Guy nodded. ‘Look forward to it.’
‘We need more champagne to celebrate your news,‘ Karen said, starting to get up.
‘I’ll fetch it,’ Bruce said. ‘You stay and talk to Guy.’
As Bruce left, Guy said, ‘Forecast is good for next week. And it’s early morning tides. You OK with an eight o’clock start?’
Karen smiled. ‘Sounds good. Let me know which day and I’ll be ready.’
*
Pulling up at the first set of traffic lights on the Totnes Road, Karen glanced across at Guy in the passenger seat.
‘The last time I did a river trip I think Wills was about twelve. I could never persuade Derek to come with me – too touristy for him. I’m really looking forward to it.’
‘Me too,’ Guy said, studying the boat timetable. ‘I’ll book tickets for the evening’s return trip, shall I? You don’t have to rush back for anything?’
‘No. Wills is doing his own thing this evening.’
Once parked in the quay car park, Guy insisted on feeding the meter before they both made for the booking kiosk. When Karen went to get out her purse to pay for the tickets, Guy said, ‘Today is my treat, so you can put that away.’
‘We could go halves,’ Karen said before laughing at the look Guy gave her and giving in. ‘OK. Thank you. Next time we go out it’s my treat.’
‘Deal,’ Guy said.
Karen smiled happily, savouring the thought of another outing with Guy.
Once onboard they made their way to the bow and found a couple of seats. Five minutes later the boat’s hooter sounded a warning as the skipper began to manoeuvre the vessel away from the quay and the ninety-minute trip down river got underway. As the boat motored past the rolling Devonshire countryside and wooded riverbanks, Karen realised the tension in her shoulders was disappearing; they were no longer stiff and rigid. Her mind, too, was suddenly free of the uncontrollable and unsolvable problems that were always swirling round and round in her
head these days.
Karen switched off from listening to the commentary as the boat cruised downriver. Spending so much time down here, she’d always known about the river’s connections with Sir Walter Raleigh and his family, Agatha Christie’s house at Greenway, the part the river had played in World War II, and the history of the Naval College. She was happy to sit next to Guy and watch life on the river unfolding before her eyes, living in the moment and taking everything in.
‘Oh, look, there’s a heron,’ Karen said. ‘I always worry about their legs – such a big bird on those spindly legs.’
‘I’m beginning to regret not bringing my camera,’ Guy said.
‘Why didn’t you? I thought photographers and their cameras were inseparable, snapping away at every opportunity.’
‘I used to be like that. Not any more,’ Guy said. ‘I haven’t taken a photograph since…’ He paused. ‘It’s well over a year now.’
Karen looked at him, puzzled, waiting for him to continue, but Guy shook his head.
‘I’ll tell you why another time. I don’t want to spoil today – we’re supposed to be building some happy memories.’
‘Okay.’ And she let the subject drop. Unconsciously, she gave a deep sigh. ‘I’d forgotten how beautiful the river is,’ she said. ‘Thanks for inviting me.’
‘It was a purely selfish move on my part,’ Guy said.
‘I know – you wanted the lift,’ Karen said.
‘Well, there was that! No, seriously, I wanted to spend time with you.’ He glanced at her. ‘D’you ever think about that summer? What it could have been the beginning of?’
Karen hesitated. ‘I have to confess – not for a long time. I did at first. Kept telling myself it was just a lovely holiday friendship and to get over it. And that’s all it was really, wasn’t it?’
Guy shook his head. ‘It could – should – have been more, though. I fancied you rotten.’
‘The feeling was mutual then.’ Karen sighed. ‘We were just kids really. Teenagers these days are so much more confident than I ever was. When I look at Tia and the way she is with Wills…’ She shrugged. ‘Different world back then.’
Summer at Coastguard Cottages Page 9